


Promise (Reprise)

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Arguing, Family Issues, Gen, No Incest, Past Character Death, Possibly Pre-Slash
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-21
Updated: 2017-10-21
Packaged: 2019-01-21 00:20:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,261
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12445203
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: Fëanor wants his father and uncle to get along, but things are not so easy for Tórin.





	Promise (Reprise)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lunarium](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lunarium/gifts).



> A huge thank you to my beta!
> 
> Tórin (or Daurin; I take Tórin to be the Quenya version of his name) is a character that appears in The Book of Lost Tales - http://tolkiengateway.net/wiki/Daurin.

Tórin laughed and laughed and barely felt the grass under his feet as he ran with his sister Míriel, his hand in hers, towards the river. The sun shone high in the sky, and its light poured down through leaves and branches in small silent waterfalls ever-shifting with the wind. The day was warm, a perfect day in the middle of spring, when the whole village bustled with activity and the world seemed free of dangers. They had already gathered nettles, and Míriel's fellow weavers were making yarn from them. Tórin had finished laying the wild rose-buds out to dry, and kept a close eye on the cherries which were maturing on the trees clustered between the river and the village.

Out of breath, Míriel and he sat down on the river-bank, like they used to do when they were children, and their mother Nurwë took them to a different river to tell them stories, a larger river which was so wide it looked like it could be the border to a different world.

Míriel sank her feet in the water, and talked and talked, her voice more melodious than the rippling song of the river. Tórin loved to listen to her, and looked fondly at her as her hands slashed through air and rose and fell, underlying her speech. She was his big sister, his twin sister, his best friend and the centre of his world. She had taken care of him after their father had been killed and their mother had to spend weeks away from them, fighting encroaching shadows. Together, they had left their mother's home and built their own village. Hand-in-hand they kept the village together through hard times.

And then black hands, twisted hook-like hands attached to impossibly long arms, rose from the crystal-clear water and wrapped around Míriel's ankles and she was dragged down into the river which was not a river any longer but a pit of blackness that surged and enveloped her, taking her away from him even as he struggled desperately to reach her.

Tórin awoke with a start, his eyes unfocused for a few terrified heartbeats. Then he relaxed, took a deep breath and looked around. He was not in Cuiviénen any longer. He had not been in a long time. He was in Valinor, alone, in the small house he had built north of Tirion after Fëanáro had come of age and married. He exhaled shakily, pushed the covers away and slowly sat up, rubbing sleep and tears away from his eyes. 

Míriel was gone. 

More than a century had passed since her death, but he couldn't bring himself to accept that he would never see her again, and she was still alive in his dreams, constantly treading the winding hallways of his memory. He would never accept that after all they had been through – all the grief and toil and struggle – Míriel would lose her right to life in this land that promised peace and happiness.

The light of Laurelin, the light which had drawn them to this place, paler than that of the sun even near its peak, flooded his bedroom. He put on a pair of pants and a shirt, and headed out. His supply of water was low, so he took two large buckets and headed to the river. The trees around his small house were different – and fewer – than those which surrounded the village, and there were plants that had not existed in Cuiviénen, but the grass was the same everywhere, as was the water that flowed peacefully before him and returned a clear image of his face to him: Míriel's hair and eyes, framing features that were sharper than hers, but uncannily alike overall. He almost expected Míriel's face to appear next to his. He was tempted to close his eyes and wish for it, wish for it until it _had_ to happen. He dropped the buckets in the river instead, to smash that mirror.

When he came back, Curufinwë was waiting for him next to a pure-white horse he was lovingly grooming. Curufinwë, who had much of Míriel in him, more than any one of his brothers. Curufinwë had inherited none of the Aulendur's tallness and none of Finwë's, but was as short and lean and full of energy as Míriel had been. 

The way he moved too put Tórin in mind of his sister. With Míriel's gait Curufinwë walked up to him, smiling her smile. Tórin let go of the buckets to gather him in an embrace, part of him wondering if he might not still be dreaming after all.

“Father asked me to ride ahead of him, to make sure we can stay with you for a while – father, the twins and myself. They're on their way, but if you can't put us up I'll ride back and we'll go on to the Halls of Aulë,” Curufinwë said when they separated, but Tórin still held onto him. 

“Of course, of course, you don't even need to ask.” 

Curufinwë's smile grew even more radiant. Tórin suddenly remembered the smell of those rose-buds he used to gather at the foot of the Orocarni, a smell that always eluded him in his dreams: sweet but not cloying and fresh as grass after a gentle rainfall. Curufinwë slipped from his hold, and bent to lift he buckets while he was distracted, and didn't let them go even when Tórin gestured that it was not necessary. 

“Has something...unpleasant happened?” Tórin asked. Fëanáro liked to visit him, whenever something bothered him, and his disagreements with Nerdanel had become more and more frequent as of late.

“No, nothing like that. The twins are developing an interest in flowers and are keen to see yours.”

Fëanáro and the twins arrived later in the day. Pityo and Telvo went off to explore every corner of the house they had never seen under Curufinwë's supervision. Tórin and Fëanáro retreated to the kitchen. 

“Arafinwë's third son was born three months ago. Father sent you a letter,” Fëanáro said as soon as Tórin set a cup filled with his best tea brew in front of him.

Tórin busied himself with the kettle and the herb-jar, delaying his reply. Fëanáro didn't usually talk of his half-siblings, unless he had something to get off his chest. “Your father should know by now that his letters all end up in my hearth, unread.”

“Uncle,” Fëanáro said, and he sounded so dejected, so tired that Tórin had to stop and face him. “Can't you at least try talking with him?”

Tórin shook his head, a lump settling in the middle of his chest. “I can never have my sister back.”

“Do you think I'm happy I can never meet my own mother?”

“...you only have your father to thank for that.” 

“It's not Father's fault! It was the Valar who came up with that ridiculous stipulation about remarriage.”

“Your father should never have accepted the Valar's terms!” Tórin snapped, his tone low but harsh.

He gripped the back of a chair, jerked it back and sat down, trying to calm himself. He had nothing against the remarriage itself. His mother Nurwë had remarried too, and her son Eöl had been a friend to him and Míriel. For all Tórin cared Finwë could have remarried however many times he wanted, to however many people he fancied, but not at the cost of Míriel's life. Not if she was barred from ever changing her mind about returning. _All future change and choice will be taken from her_...it was so senseless, so unwarranted that it made him want to throw up. It was worse than her simply being dead. It was worse even than when people vanished without a trace. It was knowing that Míriel was so so close and could never be restored to her family, to her life, even if one day she were to change her mind and beg and scream to come back. 

“No, he shouldn't have,” Fëanáro agreed, and it was heartfelt. He took a sip of his tea and turned to the window. His lips pursed, as if he were remembering something unpleasant, then he exhaled noisily through his nose. “But grief and loneliness do horrible things to people.”

“Loneliness? Your father had you. He had plenty of friends. I've seen people wait for years for their partners who disappeared. In Cuiviénen, where death lurked around every corner. Your father had nothing to fear here. He insisted for Míriel to come here. For what?”

“Father would explain himself to you, if you agreed to meet him. Father and I talked much over the past few years, we talked about everything, at length...perhaps we should have done it sooner. You know I was... _am_ angry about the fact that Mother can never return. But the thing is...I love my father. He loves you dearly, too, as a brother.”

Tórin shook his head, tears prickling his eyes. He shielded them with one hand. He remembered Finwë as an adolescent suddenly orphaned, whom Míriel had taken in. Míriel had taught him weaving, had patiently helped him build his self-confidence and erased fear from his eyes. Finwë had attached himself to her, closer and closer, until they married. 

“I'm here. I certainly won't run away should he truly wish to talk to me. Should he actually care. ...have you come here just to plead your father's case?”

“Uncle!” Fëanáro's eyes widened, hurt, but just then the twins came pattering inside the kitchen, demanding their attention.

“Can we look at your garden?” Telvo asked, bright innocent eyes staring eagerly up at Tórin.

Pityo's gaze was filled with the same excitement, though he was less forward than his twin. “Father says you have the most beautiful flowers in Valinor.”

“I do.” Tórin forced a smile, feeling a pang of guilt for lashing out at Fëanáro. “Let's go.” 

He stood up and guided his grand-nephews to the back of the house, across a small vegetable garden, and through a wooden door to a second garden, larger and fenced with tall hedges against the intrusion of most earth-bound wild animals. Flowers bloomed in every corner, slender and solitary or dotting leafy bushes or thriving in thick clusters. The twins went from plant to plant, pointing at each one and inspecting each one with much enthusiasm. The hibiscuses at the centre of the garden quickly became the focus of all their attention. There were many species of them, some with frilly petals, some many-hued, and some so large the twins' faces got lost in them. 

“They're amazing!” Pityo enthused, wrapping a giant petal around his tiny hand.

“Dad, can we have them in our garden too?” Telvo asked, pulling on the hem of his father's shirt.

Fëanáro lifted him in his arms and smiled at Tórin, a smile tinged with a silent plea. “If Uncle helps us grow them.” 

Tórin mumbled an assent and lifted the other twin, bringing him close to a tall flower. They had dinner soon afterwards. Pityo and Telvo blabbered excitedly all through it – about the garden and about all they had seen on their trip there, until their excitement got the better of them and gave way to exhaustion.

Even after they had been put to bed, Fëanáro didn't try to talk about Finwë again, for which Tórin was grateful. 

Fëanáro slept in his bed that night, curled up against him like he had many times as a child, though he was so big now that Tórin could barely wrap an arm around him. Curufinwë joined the twins in the makeshift bed on the other side of the room, and Pityo and Telvo glued themselves to their older brother. The sight put a rueful smile on Tórin's face: Míriel and he had clung to their father just like that, according to the tales his uncle Morwë liked to relate. 

Tórin fought sleep, and kept going over the conversation Fëanáro and he had had. In the darkness of his room, while he caressed Fëanáro's raven locks, the contrasting emotions that haunted him were easier to face. No matter how angry he may have been with Finwë, he missed him too. He was disenchanted with Valinor, and with the Valar, but he was glad that Míriel's son and grandsons didn't need to live in fear. Life far from Tirion and the court and Indis and her children suited him, but he longed to be with Fëanáro and his sons more often. 

The following days were all spent searching for the most unique wildflowers that grew in that region. They went through forests and glades, singing and laughing when they stopped for their meals. Back home at the end of their excursions, Tórin let the twins help him take care of his garden, while Curufinwë and Fëanáro took on the cooking. Three weeks flew by, and Fëanáro and his sons left for Tirion once again. 

As the season of ripeness gave way to the season of rest, Tórin started gathering seeds, putting them in ceramic bowls. He opened the chest where he kept all of Míriel's belongings that he had not handed over to Fëanáro, and pulled out bits of fabric – cut-outs from larger cloths, test pieces and abandoned projects. He carefully wrapped the seeds in them once they were dry. He made bundles of dried herbs and flowers, too, and packed everything up in larger cloths. When he had gathered enough, he set out for Tirion.

Nerdanel was away when he arrived, and of Fëanáro's sons only Maitimo and Carnistir, Pityo and Telvo were there to welcome him. Fëanáro promptly had his room cleaned, and treated him every night to a sumptuous dinner he himself cooked. 

Finwë came a few days later, while Tórin was in the front garden planting some of the seeds he had brought together with the twins. He came in a carriage, but without any attendants, and sent the carriage away as soon as he dismounted. Tórin saw him alight and his gaze fell for a moment on the cloths now empty of seeds and he wondered briefly how many of them Finwë had helped Míriel make. He watched as Finwë stepped through the gate, but didn't meet his eyes, he didn't want to see the emotions in them. 

Fëanáro rushed out of the house and glanced worriedly at Tórin, but Tórin quietly told him not to worry.

He stood up from where he had been crouching, brushing dirt and crushed blades of grass from his pants.

Finwë stopped in front of him, imposing and regal even in plain everyday clothes, as if he had been born to be the High King of the Ñoldor in Valinor. Tórin jerked his head down in a nearly imperceptible bow.

Finwë greeted him and made a generic remark on how long it had been since he'd last seen him, his hands twitching at his sides as if he was unsure whether to touch him or not.

“My King,” Tórin greeted him back, with as neutral a tone as he could manage, dimly aware of the patter of the twins' feet as they joined their father next to the door.

Finwë looked past him to them, very likely met Fëanáro's gaze.

“Come,” he said and turned to lead Tórin to the back of the house. Tórin went silently, intently studying the green green grass and then the pattern in the flagstones when the lawn gave way to clusters of trees and shrubs encased by stony pathways, and to narrow shady staircases which hugged the side of a steep decline. Tórin and Finwë descended one of those, and sat down on bench, under a linden tree, where they could not be heard or seen from the house.

“Fëanáro tells me you're still angry at me,” Finwë said.

Tórin crossed his arms over his chest, trying to keep his emotions at bay. “Do you think Míriel is happy now?”

Finwë's head snapped to him, but Tórin kept looking straight in front of him. 

“Answer my question.”

“I think –,” Finwë began but whatever he wanted to say died down with his voice. He tried again, but his mouth fell shut. Finally, he took a deep breath and uttered a quiet but firm enough, “no.”

“I suppose I should be happy that you are honest at least.”

“But it needs not be always like that!”

“No?” 

“I'm sure we can do something. We can prevail upon the Valar to let her choose again. Let her return, if she wishes to.”

“And just how do you plan to achieve that? The Valar know people remarried all the time in Cuiviénen, but clung to their own idea of marriage all through the debate.”

“I don't know yet, but there must be a way. Indis and her uncle Ingwë would help –”

Tórin huffed. “I -...I didn't come here to listen to this nonsense.”

He made to stand up. Finwë caught his wrist and dragged him back down, wrapping his arm around Tórin's lithe waist once they were sitting close together again, closer than before.

“It's not nonsense. After the New Year –”

“A meaningless celebration is more important than my sister's life?”

“Tórin, please, listen to me. I have duties here. Not just to my family, but to the entirety of the Ñoldor. I have to be here for the New Year, but after that we can go on a journey together, you and I, and talk, try to come up with something.”

“You and I? Where?”

“Wherever you please. To your new home, or wherever you are most comfortable.”

Tórin raised his eyes. Finwë and he were facing each other now, and the pull of nostalgia and the old never-forgotten love made his uneasiness all the more acute. And there was anger, anger because it felt like he was being offered a worthless palliative, a fleeting hope that had no chance of ever being realised, and he was desperate to cling to it. “You and I, alone?”

Finwë nodded. He bent and his lips hovered close to Tórin's face. Tórin tensed but didn't pull back. After a moment's hesitation Finwë settled for a kiss on his lips that was chaste enough but not entirely innocent. 

Tórin licked his lips, tasting memories together with the tingle left behind by Finwë's mouth. “You would deserve to never see your wife's twin's face ever again.”

“You're wrong. Seeing you is what hurts me the most.”

“You have to thank Fëanáro if I'm here. And Míriel's grandsons.”

“My grandsons.”

“...she would have loved them. She loved colours and laughter and activity. You know there had to be something deeply wrong, something none of us could see, for her to choose to die.”

“The Valar assured me her choice not to come back was free and deliberate.”

“The Valar,” Tórin scoffed, shaking his head. “I would have been angry on your behalf too, you know, if someone were to decide that 'all future change and choice' should be taken away from you, for whatever reason. Besides, you had the possibility to remarry, to find a new wife and have all the children you wanted. But no-one can ever take Míriel's place for me. I can't replace her...just like I can't replace you.”

Tórin's last words came out shaky. 

Finwë drew him towards himself, wrapping his other arm around him too.

Tórin resisted for a split heartbeat, but as tears spilled out of the corner of his eyes he hugged Finwë back, burying his face in Finwë's chest.

**Author's Note:**

> I chose to go with the Myths Transformed version of things, so the sun and moon exist all along (and Varda hides them in Valinor via an artificial dome).


End file.
